


Fluffy Things

by phinnia



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-03 22:11:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21186803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phinnia/pseuds/phinnia
Summary: In which there are fluffy, doe-eyed flamingos, like the one I bought at the local drugstore.   And Anathema does things because Nobody Else Is Going To.    'Screech' is the form of rum that Crowley is drinking.  Hefty stuff, entirely found in Newfoundland.





	1. Chapter 1

_Tadfield_

It was Book Girl's fault. Entirely. 

He had run into her after dropping off Adam because he had taken him to some sort of movie he probably shouldn't see (even though Crowley wasn't a demon governed by Hell anymore, he still enjoyed minor temptations like sneaking the Antichrist into horror movies) and he picked up a coffee at the pub and she was there and waved him over and he sighed and sat down because why the Heaven not. 

She had a ghastly pink thing with her, sitting on the table beside the book she was reading (something of Poe's, he noted). 

"What is _that_?" It was large, fluffy, pink, and it had dewy plastic eyes. It had a beak. 

"Oh, Newt got it for me." she says cheerfully. "It's a flamingo."

"That's not a flamingo. Those things stand on one leg in the water and eat brine shrimp. That is a ... stuffed ... thing." 

"It's a stuffed flamingo." She takes a sip of her coffee. "From Newt."

"Why would he give you something so ... horrible?"

"I think it's cute!" She picks it up and pats it on the head. 

"Looks like the sort of thing Azriaphale would have." Crowley mutters into his black coffee.

"Really?" Book Girl looks up from her book again, and he can practically feel her _plotting_. He, himself, was a master of plotting, and yet, there she was, sitting there, behind those glasses, _plotting_ in his direction. 

"Ciao." He snagged the black coffee, demonically miracled a decent amount of rum into it, and fled.

The Bentley played 'Crazy Little Thing Called Love' and 'Good old Fashioned Lover Boy' on repeat _all the way back to Mayfair._ He growled at her, and she did nothing. Absolutely _nothing_. Cheeky bitch.

_Soho_

He went over to the bookshop that evening with a large coffee that was about two-thirds rum (he'd actually found that rum hadn't been perfected in the south seas, but a little island in Canada, where they still made it to an absolutely marvelous 40% proof that could probably peel human paint off of walls) - and let himself in.

"'Ziraphale?" He looked around.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale fussed out of the back room. "Come in, come in. I have a marvelous red if you'd like something."

Crowley shrugs. Why not? He drinks the rest of his coffee-based rum and goes into the back and slumps onto the sofa, stretching out his legs. 

He has a glass of red. It's not bad - one of the better French ones from the forties. He has another. And a third. He's getting pleasantly buzzed-ish.

"I got your package." Aziraphale says, on the fourth glass. 

Crowley blinks. "What package?" He doesn't send packages. The postal system is a terrible invention. He knows. He'd had a hand in it. 

"Oh, the stuffed thing. The little bird." Aziraphale smiles at him. "It was lovely." 

_The stuffed thing. The little bird._

The little bird.

The little ...

Oh - 

Oh shit, bless, fuck, bollocks, damnit, fuck, fuck, FUCK.

Realization falls over him like a bucket of freezing water. 

"Gotta run, Angel." He staggers to his feet, abruptly miracling himself sober. "Plants need watering!" 

And he runs - well trips over an empty bottle and then runs - out to the Bentley.

She plays 'Innuendo' _all the way back to Mayfair_, on repeat. He growls. She does nothing. 

Cheeky.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emotions suck. Nerves suck. Nervous emotions definitely, definitely suck.

After he gets to Mayfair, he turns around and goes to Tadfield instead. What the heaven is he doing here, anyway? Time to deal with this problem at the _source_.

The Bentley, blessed thing, is playing 'I'm Going Slightly Mad' all the way to Tadfield.

"Will you _ssssstop it_?" He hisses.

He already knows shouting at her is utterly pointless, but the shouting is vaguely theraputic. 

He goes up to the door of Jasmine Cottage and _pounds on it_. "BOOK GIRL!"

He stops for half a second and listens. Oh, he can hear _springs squeaking_. Then they stop. He hopes Newt has blue balls forever for this shit. Bless Newt and his fucking _thoughtfulness. _

A window opens. "Well, you might as well come in."

"Why did you ssssend Azriaphale a fucking package, and _how_ did he think it was from me?" Crowley runs his hands through his hair and paces around the room. Newt makes him a coffee. He drinks it and miracles the mug full of tequila and drinks that as well.

"Well, you needed a shove." Anathema retorts. "How long have you been _pining_ for him?"

"I don't _pine!_ I am a _demon!_ Demons don't _pine_!"

She just _looks_ at him over her glasses. 

"A while." Crowley murmurs into his coffee mug.

"Define 'a while'. Weeks, years, hundreds of years."

He sort of waves the hand the hand that isn't holding the mug in a forward motion. This needs more tequila. He fills the mug up again. 

"Thousands of years?" She replies disbelievingly. 

"Mm." he says into the mug.

"You've been pining for ... thousands of years?"

"Mm." Delicious, delicious tequila. The Mexicans really have something going with that stuff. 

"Did you ever ... you know, get anywhere?" She is leaning forward now.

Crowley huffs. "No. I go ... too fast for him."

"When did he tell you that?"

"1971."

"That was almost fifty years ago." Newt says.

"Time flies, doesn't it?" He can remember every single thing about that horrible night. The way Aziraphale wouldn't look at him. The way the lights of the clubs made him look almost lost. And the way the Bentley played 'The Great Pretender' all the way home that evening. She was cheeky back then, too. 

"Well, _try again_, you _idiot_." Anathema says, but the way she says 'idiot', it almost sounds endearing. "We've gotten you started, now just keep going. Did he like it?"

Crowley nods into his coffee cup.

"See? Just ... buy things." Anathema gets up and shoves him bodily out the door. "The Internet is full of them, things. Shops are full of things. You have money, you can buy lots of things. Spoiling people is probably some kind of minor sin, right?"

"How did you get him to think it was from me?" 

She opens the door of the Bentley. "Adam." 

_Adam. Shit._

"Go home. Buy things." Anathema shoves him in the driver's seat. "Don't discorporate on the way there." 

The Bentley plays 'Princes of the Universe' all the way back to Mayfair and he just sighs because there's nothing he can do at this point and he's not even mad any more. 

Nervous. This is definitely _nervous_. He remembers it now. He hates being _nervous_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy blankets, chocolates, More Nerves, and water, which is Not For Drinking.

Crowley went home and screamed at the plants for an hour, but his heart wasn't really in it, and he slumped down on the couch and found himself browsing through Amazon for a while on his phone. 

_What do you get for the angel that has everything and probably still thinks you move too fast? No clue._

He started looking through the rest of humanity's internet. 

There was a pop-up ad (another one of his best things) for chocolates.

Chocolates.

Right.

Belgium. Boring little country and very very flat but they did have something going in the way of chocolates. 

He miracles his way to yesterday afternoon, in Belgium. 

_Truffles._ He tries to think of how many to send, and has no idea, and just sends the nicest box they have. 

He sends them to Azriaphale. The shopkeeper asks if he wants to enclose a note. He has no idea what to say, so he just sighs and shakes his head, and just says to put 'from Crowley' on the note.

Fucking _nervousness. Still. Bollocks. _.

He miracles himself back home and attempts to get some sleep and as he drops off he wonders _why does he have a blessed pop-up ad on his blessed fucking phone_ and he can't sleep at all for thinking about that. 

It was almost certainly Adam. 

(It was.)

So he paces around the apartment, yells at the plants for a while longer, threatens a ficus into growing several inches, and falls asleep on the couch watching some annoying kids' show he can't take credit for because humanity is sometimes just too nasty even for him.

He wakes up to his phone ringing and dives across the room for it. "Yeah?"

"Crowley!" It's Aziraphale. 

"Hi." He clears his throat and tries again. "Hi."

Is that really, _really_ the best you can do, _idiot_? Try again.

"Hi."

Apparently it is. Fucking _nerves_.

"I got those chocolates you sent! They were absolutely scrumptious!"

"Welcome." 

Well, that's better than 'hi' for _the fourth time in a row_.

"I must treat you to lunch! Can you pick me up in say, half an hour?"

"'Course." Crowley croaks.

"I shall see you then." 

The Bentley plays 'Under Pressure' _all the way to Soho_. He curses at her. This does _absolutely nothing at all. _

Azriaphale treats him to sushi, which isn't a surprise. He can't eat a single mouthful. Not even for the usual reasons, either. He usually doesn't bother with it, but this time his stomach is just tied up in knots and it's fluttering all over the fucking place. He can't even drink. It's _terrible_. He sips at a glass of water, which is actually water for once, not vodka, and watches Azriaphale eat. 

Of course, that's it's own sort of temptation in itself. Azriaphale eats like he's having passionate sex with the food. A passion-filled orgy in his mouth. Every bite is a passion-filled orgy in his mouth.

Now he's not only nervous, he's also _horny_. Blessed _fuck_.

"Are you all right, Crowley?" Azriaphale is blinking those sweet baby blue eyes at him. 

He takes a sip of water. "Fine! I'm fine. Totally fine. Absolutely fine." 

This is not fine. He'd say this was Hell, but Hell was at least more _predictable_.

He switches to Velvet Underground after he drops Azriapale off, but all she will play is 'Run Run Run' over and over on repeat. 

"I'll drive you into a building, see if I don't." He threatens, but she revs her engine at him sassily and does _nothing_.

He drives all the way to Tadfield _again_ because he cannot deal with this and ranting at Book Girl is the best thing he can think of to do.__

_ _Newt is washing the stupid car out front._ _

_ _"You look terrible." he says as Crowley storms past him._ _

_ _"Great, you noticed." Crowley says, and slams the door. _ _

_ _

_ _The really irritating thing about Book Girl is that she doesn't even look surprised to see him. "Coffee's on if you want some." She's just sitting under a ridiculous fluffy pink blanket reading more Poe and she doesn't even have the fucking gall to look surprised._ _

_ _"I feel terrible and it's all your fault!" He starts pacing around the room. "The only thing I could say on the phone was 'Hi', which I said _three times in a row in the same phone call this morning_, and then he treated me to lunch and all I could drink was _water._ Water isn't for _drinking_, it's for _bathing humans in_, or for making other beverages with!"___ _

_ _ _ _"Nerves." She says._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _"I worked that out!" He yells. "What am I supposed to _do_, that's what I _haven't_ worked out!"_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _"It'll pass." _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _"_Thanks! That's not fucking helpful!"__ _ _ _

_ _ _ _"Have you given him anything else?"_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Now he just feels ridiculous, and he doesn't have a mug this time. He nods, very slightly._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _"What?"_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _"Chocolates. Belgian." He stares at the floor._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _"Good." She smiles._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _He keeps pacing around the room, his eyes darting everywhere. "Where in Heaven did that fluffy ... thing come from?" It's pink and looks like it's made of some kind of ridiculous furry animal. Similar to one of those long-haired rabbits or a chinchilla, maybe a yak, but that ridiculous pink shade that candy floss is. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _"Newt." She smiles and takes a box from under the couch. "Got one for you, too. Blue one."_ _ _ _


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red roses mean romantic love. Pink camellias mean longing for you. This is according to the Old Farmer's Almanac, which you can read online now. 
> 
> https://www.almanac.com/content/flower-meanings-language-flowers

All the way back to Soho, the Bentley plays 'I'm Waiting for The Man' and 'Pale Blue Eyes'. 

"I don't think this is the slightest bit amusing, you know." he says sourly as he parks in front of the bookshop. 

She revs her engine at him. Cheeky bitch. 

He lets himself in. "'Ziraphale?"

"Oh! Crowley!" He's shouting from the back room, and he pokes his head out the door. He has a completely adorable smudge of dust on his left cheek. "I got the flowers."

"Wh - wh -" He swallows and tries again. "What flowers?" 

"The ones you sent." He smiles broadly. "The pink camellias. The red roses."

Bless it. Of all the times not to remember the meanings of flowering plants ... he knew there _were_ meanings, he _knew_ they were fucking _important_, but he slept through the 18th century and he kind of hated flowering plants and this was probably Adam or fucking Book Girl and he couldn't remember what they were -

"Oh!" Aziraphale says, coming into the room. "_Another_ gift?"

"Uh." He shoves the box forward at Azriaphale, and the angel staggers slightly, but he takes the box, sits down in his armchair, and opens it carefully.

"Oh!" He likes it, Crowley can tell. "How marvelously soft! Look!" He takes Crowley's hand, and pulls it into the box with his own.

It _is_ soft. Very soft.

The angel's hand is softer, and he hasn't let go. 

Crowley swallows again.

"Uh - I -" Think, think, stupid, think. "Just wanted to drop that off. Have to - water the plants!" 

"Erm." Azriaphale looks at him a little oddly. "Did you not just do that?"

"Uh - I did." Think think think. "Fertilize them! I have to fertilize them! Very important, fertilizer." He turns around and runs out of there like there was holy fire right behind him and dives in the Bentley. 

She plays 'Black Angel's Death Song' _all the way back to Mayfair_. He threatens to drive her into Nelson's Column. She ignores that completely. 

Well, he wasn't lying. It was some kind of shit, anyway. 

He spends the next half hour staring blankly at the TV flicking around the channels until he realizes somebody is _leaning_ on his doorbell. Probably Book Girl and blessed _Newt._

He flings the door open. "Look, Book Girl, I don't want any more of your -"

He feels a pair of very familiar arms around his shoulders. He sees a pair of very familiar blue eyes looking right at him. 

He feels a pair of very unfamiliar lips against his forehead, and is knocked backwards, pretty much entirely in shock. His sunglasses slide down to the end of his nose. 

"Are you all right?" Aziraphale asks.

He nods.

"Plants getting on okay?"

Another nod.

"I thought I'd drop by." the angel continues. "Since you seemed so dreadfully nervous. Make certain you were feeling ... you know ... up to snuff."

"I'm okay." Crowley croaks.

"Are you, though?" A very slight smile. "You have seemed quite agitated lately. You are running a little cool."

"Always that way." He protests. "Snake, remember?"

"May I come in?"

Crowley nods and swallows, but there is some kind of stupid lump in his throat and he has no idea why it's there. 

Well, he suspects he knows.

More _fucking, blessed nerves_.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things finally resolve themselves. The Bentley is still cheeky. Bad posture is a human thing. Crowley has a relevant tattoo.

Aziraphale looks around. "Interesting flat. Very ... modern. Spacious."

The only thing he could think of to do is shrug. So he shrugs. 

"What was it you didn't want any more of from Anathema?" 

Oh, _bollocks._ Think. Think. Think. "Uh. She gave me some kind of ... herbal stuff." He coughs. "No idea what it does, could do anything."

"You don't want any more of it, though." 

"No, no." Crowley shakes his head.

"Put any of it on the plants?"

"Oh, no, no. I think it was -" think think think - "some kind of medication or antiseptic or some type of thing, I don't even have a clue why she gave it to me, she was just sort of giving it away, I think she made too much of it, you know how humans are -" Why was he babbling like a blessed child? Why did Aziraphale have such a delectable-looking collarbone? Why did Crowley want to run his fingers through that white-blonde hair? Why did he want to suck in that lower lip and nibble that neck until the bruises came up, purple-red and fearless and marking the angel as his own?

Why was he fucking _dreaming_ about things that would never happen?

"Crowley?" Aziraphale murmurs.

"Yeah?" His voice sounds very loud, almost ragged. He falls backwards on to the sofa, beside the angel.

"Are you certain you're all right?" He leans over and softly, very softly, brushes his own lips against Crowley's lips. 'You do need to drink more water."

"P-Probably." It was a thousand degrees in here. He felt like he had a boiling kettle in his pants. Hard, awkwardly fitting, and leaky. 

"Do you want some tea?"

"No, no." Crowley shook his head. "It's warm enough already." 

Silence for a short time. 

Then Azriaphale leans over again. "Crowley?"

"Mmmm?"

"Let me give you a shoulder massage. Your shoulders look terrible."

He can't refuse. The notion of getting Aziraphale's hands on his skin is too tempting - he can't even resist that. He just turns, so Aziraphale can better reach his shoulders. 

The angel starts touching him, and immediately he realizes this is going to be a _fucking awful_ idea.

But he can't move. He's trapped.

"You have such dreadful knots in your shoulders." Aziraphale mutters, his hands warm over the shirt that Crowley is wearing. 

"I think bad posture was a Human thing, not me." he says. It comes out in a kind of wheeze. 

"Yes, I rather expect it was. Take your shirt off."

"B-uh- um - what?" He could not have just said 'take your shirt off', that would have made absolutely no fucking sense.

"Well, if you take your shirt off, I thought I'd give you a better massage." Aziraphale looks around. "You have a bed somewhere about, yes? Oh, in there. Come along." And he just drags Crowley by the wrist.

Crowley, of course, has the most wonderful bed he could find. A true dedication to sloth and greed and vice. King-sized with washed silk (or linen, depending on his mood) sheets, memory foam mattress, masses of pillows, duvets, lots of blankets, etcetera. He never made the blessed thing, but he snapped his fingers hastily and made it on the way there, because he didn't want Aziraphale to think he was a _slob_ as well as being, well, everything else he was. 

Aziraphale miracled the shirt away and gently pushed him down on the bed. "Oh, your back is a mess." 

"Has been for a while." Crowley mutters into the pillow. 'A while' was almost the same length of time he'd been smitten with Aziraphale. Falling from heaven into boiling sulphur isn't really a fun day out.

Ugh, _smitten_? What a ridiculous word. 

Ridiculous, but probably dead on, said a voice in his head that eerily sounded like Book Girl. 

Aziraphale had miracled up some kind of massage oil, and it smelled wonderful, jasmine and cinnamon. The only problem was that he was rubbing it on his back. Well, that wasn't really a _problem_ at the moment, but it probably would end up to be. 

But the angel had lovely hands. Crowley let his mind drift. He'd bet the angel had a lovely _everything._

"What's this?" he heard.

"Tattoo." Crowley murmured in reply.

"Interesting. The yin-yang symbol?" 

"Yeah." He had had it on his back for a while. He didn't see anything weird about it. He liked tattoos. And if that one had a little more symbolism than most of the others, well, that's all right. Azriaphale wouldn't get it.

There was silence for a second, and then. "Crowley?"

"Yeah?"

"You realize the meaning behind the yin-yang symbol?"

_Oh, shit._

"Uh ..."

"Turn over." It was a gentle request, but he couldn't _not_ turn over. So he did.

The angel's eyes were blue and impossibly fond. He actually climbed _on top of Crowley's hips._ "You know, I'd been suspecting as much for a while now. The gifts. The flowers especially. You've been _courting_ me." He traces a finger across one of Crowley's cheekbones. _"That's_ why you've been so nervy."

He nods. He can't think to do anything else anyway. The lump in his throat is the size of his fist. He has no idea how that works. But it's probably something to do with nerves.

"May I kiss you?" Aziraphale asks.

"What?" There is no possible way he could have heard that right and he's pretty sure he has near-perfect hearing.

"May I kiss you?"

He _did_ hear that right. Crowley nods and leans up on his elbow and his lips brush against Aziraphale's and Aziraphale's lips brush against his own and it's like the first time he kissed anyone but better, so much better, because it's Aziraphale and he doesn't have to do that ridiculous pretending to breathe thing he does when he's pretending to be a human and the kiss goes on. Then he feels Aziraphale's tongue questing gently at the edge of his lip and Satan, is this actually true? Is this happening? Or is this a dream? 

Their tongues tangle together, slide across each other.

"How fascinating." Azriaphale purrs. "Kept the forked tongue?"

Crowley swallows. "Well, yeah. And the eyes."

"Wonder what that would feel like." The angel's smile is nearly devilish, and he looks down.

He looks - _oh_.

"Don't suppose I can tempt you?" The angel's breath is hot in his ear.

"Fuck yesssss." Crowley breathes, and slides down a bit lower on the bed. Aziraphale has those irritating trousers with laces on them and that's annoying right now (but, he admits, probably a bit more forgiving than the zip that is currently torturing him slowly) so he just demonically miracles them across the room, along with the pants. His cock springs forth, proud, leaking a little, ivory and rose-colored, thicker than his own but not quite as long, and perfectly Aziraphale.

Crowley is _good_ at sucking cock. He didn't invent it - that was Humans again, versatile things that they were - but he sure as Heaven tried it out. And he likes it. It was one of those ways he could give others pleasure in the name of sin. And he's bloody great at it, too. Over several thousand years, you get to be great at things. 

There were a few other things he decided to keep from the snake form, too. Like the complete lack of gag reflex. He licked the vein underneath, slowly, slowly, all the way to the tip, tonguing back the foreskin gently to reveal the head, drinking Aziraphale's moans like they were the most delicious Scotch he's ever had. 

He watches Azriaphale's eyes. They glaze with pleasure, and they get wider and wider as he swallows, but he can tell - he's watching the pupils, he knows the signs. Aziraphale has done this before, too, because he's not trying to do anything stupid like choke him to death - not like he'd actually die, but it would be annoyingly inconvenient - and he's pulling gently at Crowley's hair, and Crowley likes that a lot, the pain-pleasure gateway. 

He yanks a little harder as he comes and Crowley can taste the spurts of bittersweetness. Fantastic. He gently licks the angel off until Aziraphale protests with a slight murmur and pulls him up to kiss him soundly again. 

He is lost in the kiss, just lost to it, until he realizes that the angel has miracled away his jeans and has a hand around his cock now. 

"Oh." The angel is looking up at him, and Bless him, that _is_ a devilish smile. "My darling, we _must_ do something about this."

"Hnghk?" Crowley says. Did Aziraphaile just call him 'darling'?

"Oh, yes. I have no idea how you fit all that in those tight trousers." One of those perfectly, incredibly soft hands starts stroking him firmly. Gentle, but not too gentle. Just enough. The other hand twists into his hair. "You like it when I pull on this, yes?"

"Mmmm." He groans. It's basically all he can do at this point. Six thousand years and he's coming undone like a mere human on their first decent temptation. Groan and thrust and enjoy the feeling of Aziraphale's hand against him - cool, soft, broad, skilled, and that makes Crowley wonder how many times he's done this to himself, and _that thought_, about Aziraphale pleasuring himself at thoughts of Crowley, is enough to make him spill messy human essences all over the Heavenly place. But Aziraphale seems to be expecting that. He doesn't even _care_. No, he just smiles in a slightly wicked way at Crowley and _licks his hand clean_.

Crowley thinks he may actually faint. Or possibly discorporate. He's never discorporated from sex before and this _will_ be interesting. Never mind they kicked him out. The paperwork alone is going to be fucking Heavenly to fill out. Not that it isn't always bad, but this time it'll be worse.

"You all right, love?" Azriaphale asks.

Crowley blinks. Twice. "Gngk. Er. Uh. Maybe. Yes?" Did Azriaphale just call him 'love'? This is not actually happening. He licks his lower lip. "You're actually here, right? We actually did ... what we just did?"

The angel laughs. "Oh yes." He puts his arms around Crowley again, cuddles him closer. "Might like to do it again, too. Maybe some other things."

Crowley pushes himself up on one elbow. "What in Heaven's name do you know about _other things_?"

"Darling. All of those gentleman's clubs I was a member of, we weren't just taking _tea_ and playing _whist_ in there."

Crowley's jaw drops, and Aziraphale pulls him closer and kisses him again. 

On the drive to Tadfield, which takes far too long because he can't have sex and drive at the same time, the Bentley plays 'Love of my Life'. 

"This one just played." Aziraphale says.

"She's being bloody cheeky." Crowley rolls his eyes.

"Oh." The angel listens to the lyrics on the third go-round. "Oh! Well, you are sweet." He pats her on the dash.

She purrs. Crowley can't even be annoyed about it.

"_Finally_!" Anathema says as soon as they get out of the car. 

Crowley does not ask how she knew. Aziraphale smiles, pleased, and drags him inside.


End file.
